actual-changeling
90% multifandom chaos, 10% mental illness
Alex || they/them | dey/deren | ze/zem || young adult || find me on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualchangeling || trans, aro, lesbian, queer || let's just say there is SO MUCH wrong with me || not spoiler free for anything i post about || spoilers will be tagged
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auuuurghhhhhhhh
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Folks, friends, y’all…. esk*mo is a slur. I understand a lot of people don’t know that, I don’t want to be a dick about it, but I’ve been seeing it in fics. Wanna write “esk*mo kisses”? Just say “nuzzled noses” or something.
I’m not here to call anybody out, it’s been in multiple fics, I’m not vague posting. This is just a psa. 👍🏻
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Yknow when you see a post and you're like "oh I have to reblog this for The Mutual" and then you scroll up and you see that the one who reblogged it is The Mutual
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I find as fandom has assimilated towards a capitalist mindset of consumption, there has been a larger focus on fanart and fanfiction- both in spaces that view creatives as "content creators" and spaces where creatives are seen as writers and authors but lauded similarly to celebrities or deities for gracing the common people with their creations.
This has produced a side effect wherein fanart and, primarily, fanfiction are seen as the Best Forms Of Transformative Works... which means that any other type of transformative work is thrown by the wayside.
There should be no hierarchy of fanworks - every single work is a labor of love (or spite... I see y'all throwing middle fingers to canon 😉) and should be recognized as such. Fandom is a community. It's not a transactional relationship. Everyone contributes and interacts out of shared passions and interests.
If you make podfics, gifs, photo edits, fanvids, fan binding, metas, fiber arts, jewelry, fanmixes, translate fics to another language, run/contribute to a fan wikia or compile lore and resources in other ways: I see, appreciate, and cherish all the hard, love fueled work you put into your creations.
Not to say that fanfic and digital art are over-appreciated (Since I do see that many people are allergic to pressing reblog. It's a community. We're supposed to share and communicate. Lurkers are valid but for the most part, interaction with like-minded people is what fandom is intended for.) but the pedestal they are placed on needs to be lowered. Your favorite artists and authors are real people with real lives. They piss and shit just like you. They work in retail and healthcare and are unemployed due to disability. There is nothing extraordinary about them and they are wonderful human beings all the same. No one is better than anyone else. We're all equals here on this playground.
That said, I think we need to uplift the underappreciated fanworks and creators and give them more attention so they are on equal footing with fanfic writers and fanartists. Reblog the gifsets and tell the creator you're in love with how they colored the gifs, keyboard smash in the tags when reblogging a plush doll someone crocheted of your blorbo, try listening to a podfic on your commute home instead of an audiobook and remember to leave a comment when you get home.
As a final note, I want to give a warm hug to anyone who has sat refreshing tumblr or ao3 hoping that maybe someone will tell them they did a good job. To anyone who has considered quitting their fandom endeavors because their posts or works never get as much attention and love as the rest of the artworks or fics in the fandom tags, your creations are worth making and sharing. Numbers do not equate to quality, nor can they convey how loved your creations are by a given person. Only you can bring your unique sparkle to fandom and your presence is absolutely welcome no matter how big or small, grandiose or inconsequential, important or worthless you think it is.
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Crowley would be kind to trans kids in particular I think
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Some kinky/m-rated post-revival headcanons for msr, please?? ☺️
1. Her moisturizer is obnoxiously expensive. It comes in a fancy little purple jar that he always winces at seeing in the recycle bin because he feels as though even the empty vessel must be worth money that he does not need.
Scully runs her fingers down her Vespucci throat, fingers slick with obscure polymers, and he remembers why he doesn’t care.
“Can I help you?” she asks, massaging nightingale shit or snail venom or some other unholy thing into those impossible cheekbones. Into eyelids taut and fine as dew-jeweled spiderwebs. Watching him in her Edwardian silver-glass mirror through lashes like opera curtain fringe.
Decades of touching her, but he cannot say she has skin like the finest vellum without sounding like Ed Gein. He cannot say “I want to bite your calla-lily throat until it bruises into a violet,” without sounding like Ted Bundy.
“Nothing,” he says, his lip between his teeth. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your ablutions.”
He bites at his tongue like a cherry in April; almost ripened but not quite. He twitches a little in his faded yellow pants, twitches and considers, but isn’t fully hard yet.
Scully watches him in the mirror. Runs lotion between her high, bare breasts with her Rodin hands; studies him with her tourmaline eyes.
***
2. His forearms. She fell in love with restrained sexuality - no. No, she had a concept of it after she watched Casablanca one afternoon home from school with a stomach bug. Catholic girls fall in love with restrained sexuality very young, only they don’t know it. They iron their kilts and they pray and they confess to all the wrong sins. They fall in love with dark wool blazers and satin ribbons and the brave wilted starch of hand-me-down blouses.
The muscles below his elbows, woven like a braid. Like a scourge.
He’s past sixty. He’s past sixty and if she’d met him now at the same age she was then she still would have bitten her lip and said “Jesus H. Christ” and quietly, secretly, shamed her father.
Let him finger her in a Ford Taurus. Called her sister and said, “Ohh, Missy, I think I fucked up.”
Daniel, Daniel. She thought that was love.
Mulder smirks, a five-o’clock-shadow on his disparately perfect face. Mulder with his squinty eyes and his too-short chin and his beestung jigsaw mouth like the reason kissing was invented.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, tapping his nutmeg fingers on the scarred kitchen table.
“You don’t make very much money,” Scully notes, running her thumb along his brachioradialis. His skin is the color of sand castles, of the the edges of chocolate chip cookies. “With your blog.”
Mulder pouts. “I made it the old fashioned way,” he says, his thumb against her philtrum. Her lips. Her tongue.
“You certainly didn’t marry it,” she teases. “Living in sin.”
He nibbles the fleshy pad of her thumb. “I inherited.”
***
3. Her waist is sister to a Stradivarius. Her waist like Maud of Wales. He knows he shouldn’t obsess over this, her taut palimpsest belly, especially after the birth of a child they can no longer even claim. He knows it’s a quirk of genetics, like her startling eyes and her amber hair and her glorious brain. He knows she was born to be someone’s muse and that he has thwarted her destiny of Gauloises and pouting silver-nitrate immortality in a coffee table photography book.
She could still launch a thousand ships, she could bring Rossetti to his knees. He does not realize that the muse she is - a Perugino angel, a Lovelace polymath - remains his alone by her desire.
Scully, nearly sixty. So soft and so hard and angular and curvaceous. How had he ever waited, her waist and breasts and hips all bound in wool and gabardine and fitted black poplin? How had he let her beg off the lyric of “If I were the king of the world/Tell you what I'd do/I'd throw away the cars and the bars and the wars/Make sweet love to you.”
He curves his hot palm below her rib cage with his left hand, thumbs her tailored blouse open with his right.
He sucks at her rosy-brown nipple; her clavicles; her pale calf; sucks at her like Eve drinking in the first sweet juices of the apple.
***
4. Mulder should have been a pianist or a surgeon, she thinks. Should have been conducting an orchestra with fingers that beautiful, but instead he’s massaging a focaccia into a lazy rectangle.
He’s a tactile animal, her love, with his rangy hands and his absence of physical boundaries. Mulder has loomed and leered and poked and prodded for decades. He’s touched her in wildly inappropriate ways since Monica Lewinsky could legally drink. The 90’s, what a goddamn time, with his wholesomely filthy calendars and his flagrant innuendo.
Scully’s watched him squeeze limes and kill terrible people and braid challah and still - shameless - she sucks her bottom lip when he unbuttons a cuff, grips the gear-shift in their Highlander.
Mulder slices a tomato, chiffonades the basil.
“How long to rise,” Scully murmurs, cupping her palm around the tender juncture between his thighs.
Mulder sucks in his breath, arranges a flower garden on his dough. Adjusts an olive slice with the precision of Michelangelo.
“Twenty-four hours in the fridge,” he says, pressing deeply into her hand. “I hope you haven’t got plans.”
***
5. He licks at it like someone’s elderly aunt; like a mother cat; like a judgemental yiayia, bubbie, meemaw.
Scully swats at him, irritated. “Stop it. It’s not schmutz.”
“No,” Mulder says, tenderly. Stubbornly. “All those years, who did you think you were fooling?”
She scowls, too thin and too pale and too aristocratic for his comfort. “When I was nine Aunt Olive said it cluttered up my face.” Scully presses a forefinger to the birthmark above her lip. “It made me self conscious.”
“Je suis coquette,” Mulder says, his tongue teasing her lips apart, pleased with his own cleverness. He took three semesters of French, traveled there, but studied Les mouches independently.
A gentle swat to his nose. “It’s a cluster of melanocytes.”
He would absolutely love to slap Scully’sAunt Olive. Scully's dreary biology professors. “Tell Marilyn Monroe,” he mumbles against her fleur-de-sel mouth. “Tell Cindy Crawford.”
Scully says nothing, but her skin warms. Softens, loosens. She melts, midway cotton-candy at the State Fair, into his waiting mouth.
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any moment now
a season 5-ish ficlet that just kinda. spilled out of me while trying to write something else. pretty much just very emotional angsty hurt/comfort
content warnings for discussion of the cancer arc & mulder-typical suicidality
tagging @today-in-fic
———
Look, she didn't mean to keep it from him, and she never lied because he never asked, and maybe she would have if he had. Maybe she wouldn't have. Is it still a lie if the truth behind it is the same?
She's fine. She is truly, completely fine, except for the moments when she looks at him and sees a gun pressed to his temple. except for when she passes out on the plane and wakes up with her head on his shoulder, his arms around her, and she wants to fall out of the sky.
Immortality isn't not dying; it's finding a moment worth living in and then never leaving, and that is the crux of the problem, isn't it? The "never leaving". The "finding a moment worth dying for".
Worth dying in.
She knows how to die now, and it doesn't scare her anymore, but it scares him, and she is scared of his fear. So, sure, she is afraid of dying and of what will survive, and for how long. There is no moment without him, and she knows he won't hesitate, just like he didn't hesitate trapped in a hospital room. Crumbling on the floor of his childhood home.
Crying next to her in the middle of the night, kneeling and twisting his sorrow into a prayer, and God did not hear him, but she did.
Some days, she wants to leave behind their guns and run away. She wants to take his hand and make sure he holds hers, always, never a weapon. Never something that might kill him, but she might kill him too, and she cannot tell if she's the gun or the bullet or the finger pulling the trigger.
If she really wants to stop him from following her, knowing there is nothing left to find alone.
An hour until we land, and she closes her eyes again and doesn't move. Neither of them moves anymore, they're done dancing. His lips are in her hair, and every turbulence is a spark of hope. They're burning up or dreaming that they are, or maybe this is her kneeling next to him with no prayers left.
They could fall out of the sky, and he would still put himself between her and the world, no matter how futile. He always will, unless the world is inside of her and killing her on its way out. He tried to dig up the truth marking her for death, having found it just to wish he had never started searching at all, pleading with nothing to allow him to take her place.
Her not him, him not her, and they keep wrapping the same ribbon around their hands—standing in front of the desk that is their altar, the office turned sacred ground turned graveyard dirt.
Let me save you on my way to the grave, as if they aren't going to be buried in the same coffin, the same earth. Not a moment worth dying for, but a person, a life imagined and lived over and over and over. Maybe this is the time they got it right. Maybe they always have. Maybe that's their immortality, a shared life worth dying in.
Any moment now, she thinks, and he thinks, and she takes his hand, even though it's not the flying that scares her anymore.
It's the landing.
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hey artists just in case you feel despair at the rise of ai art please remember that the talking points of pro-ai people are as genuinely “ai art bad? but what if there was a PUCK girl who had Steampunk Tube Arm Prosthetic No Hand Syndrome that couldn’t draw because of no hands and you poured a biiiig vat of pencils in front of her really big and made her look at it sadddd style and she can’t just Pick Up Pencil and draw because No Hand ? what if that happened? then ai art… goood😃😄?”
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i started watching a show some of you might have heard of
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You are not “too stupid” to create.
You are too exhausted to create.
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Handbinding Project: My Immortal by Tara Gilesbie
This really started over a year ago, with a project started in the Renegade Bindery server: people would format different chapters of My Immortal, without knowing what anyone else was doing, and we would put them together into one file. It was agreed upon that everybody would disregard both good design and good taste.
(If you click on each image, the caption lists who designed the page in question. I couldn’t include them all here, but every page is basically a work of art. Horrible, typographically hellish art.)
After raiding a Joann’s of materials I thought belonged in Hot Topic circa 2005 (before it just became Think Geek II: We Don’t Light Our Store,) I almost immediately tested positive for covid. So I made most of this over the last four days, and with varying levels of coherent thought and common sense. The process is documented in a thread here
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"Un-uhlaive? UN-UHLAIVE? Ma'am, that man has been killed. He has been MUHDUHED. To DEATH."
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